lambstew4you!!!(take it)

he/they 🤯 poetry and shit

[nosongunsung11]

collection of posts for a very specific dynamic

[lambstew4you]

the martyr.

your spite coats my throat in a never ending stream of bile.

as I choke and fail to respire, I hope it pools at your feet, seeping into the husk of a person you can claim to be.

i am not a lamb, i bleat.

i am not a lamb.

[lambstew4you]

We all burn in a hell sculpted by the fingers of a higher being on the wheel and clay of bone of those before us.

The hand of God which we chose to glove ourselves with has entrapped us. It clasps around our fingers, the blood flow imprisoned as we are, the circulation continuing in an endless cycle of deterioration until the eventual violet overtakes it.

The piece of clay folds in on itself, a martyr of the busied hand, the previous support lackluster, leading to desperate clawing fingers failing to rebuild the bowl that held dreams.

We are the clay, the wheel, the circulation, the blood flow, we are god.

We are God.

And God shall be the death of men.

[lambstew4you]

You say you are an infection,

your fingertips rotting and corrupting.

I believe there is beauty in the decaying flesh you don,

because the skin that flakes off your hands reveals bone,

hard cold carbon

stained by the blood of previous wounds.

It seems to be terrifying, but I find it intriguing; how the persona and skin you had adorned are now but a shed husk

and you are beautifully bone.

[lambstew4you]

i love poetry because it’s always short little moments in time, a few fleeting thoughts. But ones that are a lifetime for others, ones that are so true they encapsulate your entire being, and are words you’ll remember forever. It’s cool.

[lambstew4you]

The essence you let me steal

Feels tainted upon my tongue.

I am culpable,

For you grant me all of yourself

And I take and take and take.

But here, you still persist within my phantasmic nature.

Which makes me consider the stake through my heart is the touch that is yours.

[lambstew4you]

If I had twitter blue I would’ve made these and that’s a promise!

[lambstew4you]

A broken clock is right twice a day.

So if I only glance at you then -and only then- you’ll work, you’ll suffice.

But I cannot mend you, for I myself am a timer.

I reset repeatedly.

We both need a clockmaker, as my clock runs on yours.

I only sound when it’s too late.

The pie now burned, lasagna crisped.

The fire kindled. The alarms blaring.

The kitchen gone.

As we crackle in the midsts of the flames,

I had only wished I had assessed your insolence and called you what you are.

Broken.

[lambstew4you]

Oh sweet and tender Lucifer. How you pull me into your clutch. The fallen angel turned devil never lost his beauty.

“be not afraid” you utter.

I am not afraid of what you are, but losing both you and myself in your touch. My heart is corralled by the strange comfort of your hypocrisy no matter how much I try to escape it.

I cannot touch you, almost as if I would taint you. My heart yearns to see the flickering candlelight- like blush paint your face, and to feel your fingers clasped between mine. You’ve changed me. I embrace what I can through a dampened warmth.

These limits imposed cannot stop me for my own good. If you are fleeting, falling, if the world moves upwards while you move down, I shall catch you.

I’ll offer you a cigarette, you’ll take a hit, as will I, and the toxins will fill our breath simultaneously. The addictive bitter taste is eerily similar to you. The more I kiss it to my lips the less time I have to breathe. Your nicotine hits my tongue and lungs and brain and stings violently, making my heart beg for more as it does already.

But we both shall reach our end. the control takes hold and the chains run awry. Our time is cut shorter than before contractually. But in these twisted chains, I promise to hold you for when I couldn’t, and finally hold the cigarette to my lips.